Wounds
by Princess Reinette
Summary: Time heals all wounds... or does it? A chance encouter leaves Watson with questions and Sherlock depressed... whoever could it be? Rating will go up - eventually... Review!
1. Wounds

_**6/20/12: I fogot to put in a MAJOR element in this story, so there will be some rewrites. I reccommend you read through the story again, and I apoligize in advance for any inbox spamming!**_

**This is set sometime before the last episode of Season 1, sometime before the 'pool scene.' A chance encounter leaves Watson confused, and Sherlock depressed. Whoever could it be?**

**I origionally wrote this with no plans to post it, but I actually enjoyed it; I don't think I've ever written so much at one time!**

**I would recommend listening to **_**Breathe**_** by Greg Maroney while reading this.**

* * *

They had been walking, just as usual, discussing lightly the ending to a particularly taxing case. Nothing was strange, or out of place.

And then he stopped.

Now, Sherlock Holmes was a strange man, as Doctor John Watson had noticed many times before, but he was not one to stop in the middle of a crowded street, with no mention as to why he was doing it. None the less, Sherlock Holmes was stopped, and he was staring.

John wasn't sure at first what he was starting _at,_ exactly, but when the detective began to run, weaving in and out of the crowds thoughtlessly, John had no choice but to follow.

They were in a strange sort of silence, at first; the noise of the early afternoon shoppers was still there, but dimmed, as John watched his best friend chase something unknown. The silence was deafening, the pounding of his own heart all he could hear, until;

"Anna!"

John caught a slight reaction from someone ahead of them, a girl, blonde – hair pulled up high on her head – before the woman began to swiftly move through the masses, almost as deftly as Sherlock, and certainly with the same about of determination.

"_Anna!"_ Sherlock was almost running now, trying desperately to catch up to the elusive woman, and she, in turn, walked faster. For the first time, John noticed she was tugging a child along beside her.

"_Annaleia Marie Holmes!"_

This time, the woman stopped, but did not turn around. The little boy beside her did, though, out of curiosity, no doubt.

Sherlock caught up, finally, and grabbed at the woman's gloved hand, the one the little boy had dropped when he had turned, trying to discover the reason for part of his mother's name to have been called so frequently, and with such desperation.

The girl turned into him with almost no reluctance, John noticed, her face hard, eyes to the ground, with lips set in something resembling sadness.

"_Sherlock," _her voice, even to the doctor's untrained ears, was music, floating around them. The ex-army man had joined the couple, out of breath, just in time to witness the intensity that the one word had brought to them.

"_Anna,"_ Sherlock still had his fingers wrapped around her wrist, directly under the black lace that adorned part of the glove covering her left hand, staring into her face, compelling her to look up.

"_Mummy?" _the child's voice broke the veil surrounding them, as Anna, John supposed, looked down to meet her son's eyes, and Sherlock relaxed his grip, in favor of placing his hands behind him in a familiar gesture.

"_Who is that?" _The innocent question stirred the air even more, as Anna, surprisingly, looked up to Sherlock, with a look that clearly asked, "_What should we say?"_

The implied, but silent as the question, '_we_' confused John even more, and he found himself looking at his friend as well, seeking the answer to a very similar question.

"_John," _said Sherlock, "_Why don't you go and buy the boy a treat? Anna and I have some things to discuss."_

It was only then that John realized that the shop they had stopped at was, indeed, a sweets shop.

"_All…right?"_

"_Can I mum?"_

The girl's answer came with little conviction at first, but grew as she regained the confidence she had exuded earlier.

"_Of course, love. That's perfectly fine, if – " _she looked up, confirming, "_Mister John, that is, doesn't mind."_

"_I guess not. Come on, little man, what kind of sweets do you like?"_

Sherlock gave a slight nod as Dr. Watson led the boy off, as if to say thanks, in his own way.

As far as he could tell, neither half of the strange pair spoke again until they had watched the two disappear into the sweets shop. John supposed they had begun to talk again at some point, because when he and the little boy had returned to the street, now laden with a few packages each of chocolates and peppermints, both the man and the woman looked slightly agitated, leaning into each other even further, bodies nearly touching. With any other people, John would have looked at it as intimacy, the way two lovers would subconsiously gravitate towards one another. But not Sherlock. Surely not. As they came closer, he picked up a few strands of their conversation.

"…_with Mycroft."_

"_Hmmph."_

"_Although, that wouldn't make much sense, as I was quite sure I was… satisfactory…. In that department."_

"_Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Holmes, it's unbecoming in a man."_

"_Only when it's untrue."_

Although the battle of wits was entertaining, in the least, it was slightly disturbing, and John found himself curious beyond reason, and was near delighted when the boy spoke up.

"_Look mummy! Mr. John bought me chocolates, and a peppermint stick!"_

"_How lovely, dear," _she said, obviously distracted, but her gaze was filled only with love and adoration as she spoke to her son. "_And did you thank Mr. John?"_

The boy looked conflicted for a moment, a surprisingly familiar look to John, before a smile lit up his face and he turned to the doctor;

"_Thanks, mister!"_

"_Sure thing. I'd be more okay with it though if I knew your name,"_

"_Alexander Seymour! Where were your manners!"_

"_But you said not to tell my name to strangers!"_

Anna smiled with slight exasperation, and turned to John.

"_I suppose I'm being slightly hypocritical, aren't I?"_ She held out her hand, and John shook it lightly._ "Annalea Seymour, and this is my son, Alexander, but we call him Xander, for short." _Turning to the detective, _"I'm rather surprised you didn't ask, Sherlock."_

"_I had no need to. It was a simple enough deduction. His bag and the breast pocket of his rather expensive private school uniform are both monogrammed with an 'A.' Knowing your love of history, it would be the name of someone significant, but often forgotten; you always did love a challenge. The name would have to be regal or royal, due to your near obsessiveness with power, and you would have a nickname for him far from the usual. That narrows down the choices considerably, and then pairing them with the ones that sound best with his both of his last names, it leaves only one option. Alexander."_

"_Good to know you haven't lost your touch, darling."_

"_Never,"_

"_Well then, now that we're all acquainted," _she said, straightening up and pulling her bags back together, "_We really must be going. Errands to run, and all that."_

"_Liar,"_

John was surprised when she didn't even try to deny it, instead saying, "_Yes. In truth, we will return swiftly home where I will send Xander off to his nurse for the afternoon, and then dig out my old photo albums and reminisce. I'll drink about three glasses of red wine before resorting to whisky, and yes, I probably will cry a lot, but not to worry, I'll be better in the morning."_

With a final breath, she took her son's hand and turned to go.

"_I'm sorry,"_

Those were the last words John had expected to hear from his friend, after all that.

"_For what, this time, Sherlock?"_

He didn't answer, as if ignoring her question entirely. Annalea stood with her back turned, stock still in the street, a mirror image that John had seen just a few minutes earlier, before this had become strange and near impossible.

"_At least let me help you with your shopping,"_

This time, she did move her head slightly, so she was looking at the ground behind them, the dark arrangement of flowers and a small hat on her beautiful hair a contrast to the stark white of her dress, but matching the single glove she wore. A curl hung perfectly, framing her face. For the first time that day, John realized that she really was beautiful.

"_Somehow I think we'll manage. Good-day, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,"_

It wouldn't occur to John until much later that evening to question how she had known his last name.

* * *

**Please review with thoughts or comments. I have more in mind, but I realise there might not be much interest - please let me know!**

**-Reinette**


	2. Consult

_**6/20/12: This chapter is also edited, slightly more that the last chapter. So not much at all. Thanks for your patience!**_

**IMPORTANT AUTHORS NOTE: So, the address listed IS actually a place in Belgravia – go check it out! Very nice, although I redesigned the interior a bit. I also guessed on the magazine company – I had no idea. I don't keep up with British gossip columns… often… Keep in mind that this all happened BEFORE 'A Scandal in Belgravia' so John has no idea Miss Alder also lives near-by. Sorry if this sounds a bit American- it's what happens when you spend more time on one side of the pond than the other. **

**This was originally meant to go longer, but I just had too much fun with the details! The next chapter will probably pick up right where this one ends- they still have a bit more to discuss. **

**Thanks to **_Howlynn_** for the kind words and inspiring ideas!**

* * *

It had been nearly a week before John's curiosity got the better of him.

The incident had been nagging at him every chance it got, and Sherlock's behavior had hardly helped manners.

And, of course, the automatic search engine at the top of his screen every time he tried to blog didn't exactly discourage him, either. All it would take was a few words, and he could know everything about the strange woman who had put his friend into such a state.

Eventually, he gave in.

He typed quickly, trying subconsciously to get it over with as soon as possible, the words flowing from his mind.

Annalea + Seymour + London

It took .226 seconds for the good doctor to have over 400,000 results available to him.

He clicked the first article almost blindly, decidedly searching for her address, nothing more. He would, as social contract bid him to, only allow himself to know what she wanted him to; nothing more.

'**Heiress moves to London in light of parents' death'**

** Miss Annalea Seymour, more commonly known as 'Miss Anna,' recently announced her imminent move to London in an exclusive interview with **_**Gazette. **_**The young heiress and single mother says that although she immensely enjoyed her time in her parents manor home near Cotswold, she is looking for a fresh start, "away from the more painful memories." **

** Many readers may question her choice, as London typically offers little future for the wealthy that have no wish to work…**

The article went on to question and in some cases, slightly demean Miss Seymour, as gossip coloums do, but as John skimmed the article, he finally came across what he was looking for.

_Number 37 Chesham Place, Belgravia, London SW1_

Now to find out whom she really was.

He had slipped out of 221b Baker Street unnoticed by a nearly catatonic Sherlock, curled up on the couch in his dressing gown, the same way he had been for days before. He had decided to walk – Belgravia wasn't far, after all, and the cab fare wouldn't have been worth it. He had arrived unscathed, and proceeded to ring the bell. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but his mind hadn't even begun to consider that a home like this might actually have, well, servants. A young girl with dark black hair answered the door, bidding him good day.

"_Right, um, yes? I'm here to see Miss Seymour, is she in? She's not, ahem, I mean, she's not expec…"_

"_Charlotte?" _the call came from a near-by room, inquisitively. _"Who is it?" _She had her question answered a few seconds later when she walked into the hallway from the left, her heels clicking on the hard marble floors.

"_Ah, Doctor Watson, wasn't it? What a surprise!" _Her smile seemed genuine to John, and he relaxed slightly. _"Do come in, Charlotte will take your coat."_

"_Oh, uh, thanks." _He was led into a room to the left; assumingly the one Anna had just come from, with large bay windows facing the street, and doors opening onto a terrace. A tea service was set up on the glass-topped coffee table, but only one cup was filled, and hardly any of the pastries touched. A book lay perched hap-hardly on the arm of a low-sitting white couch. The room was, John decided, tastefully elegant, as was what he had seen of the house so far. Anna waved her hand, gloved, again, John noticed, this time with a light brown colour, to indicate that he should sit in the chair set at an angle from the couch, slightly turned into the fire that was burning softly underneath the marble mantel.

"_Tea?" _He nodded, and she poured.

"_Now, I am curious as to why you would be visiting me. I get many visitors, mind, but not usually without an appointment." _She looked almost teasingly at him, and he had to suppress the sudden urge to ask what exactly those people made an appointment for.

"_Sorry if it's an inconvenience-"_

"_Not at all, John, actually it's a welcome distraction. That book is bloody boring."_

John smiled a bit, and relaxed more, as the slightly imposing figure of Miss Annalea Seymour became less intimidating.

"_Good. I'm here, well, I'm here because," _He took a deep breath, and leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands loosely in front of him. "_Look, Sherlock's been in a right state since he ran into you last week, and I want to know why."_

"_And how do you know it's because of me? Sherlock can be – "_

"_Yeah, I know, but this time it's different. He's been worse than usual, stressed, not eating – " _He was interrupted by her standing quickly, and moving towards the door. He thought for a moment she was going to leave, but instead, she bent down near a cupboard John hadn't noticed until just then. It had a glass front, but the interior was filled with boxes, about the size of shoe boxes, wrapped in brightly coloured paper, created a collage on the shelf. Anna chose one, red, and walked back over, handing it to him gently.

"_Here, this will help," _seeing his look of incredulity and concern, she giggled. "_It's only tea – I special order it from India; it became a habit long ago, and I suppose I just never got over it. I enjoy it too, but Sherlock has a special attachment to it or something; either way, it will help with his nerves, and keep him from lashing out quite so much." _She took a sip of her own tea, and set the china cup back in its saucer.

"_But we both know, Doctor Watson, that his difficulties aren't why you're here."_

"_Really? Because if it's not, then I'm rather confused as to why I am here, then."_

"_You're here simply because you're curious."_

"_Am I," _his voice was dry with sarcasm.

"_Yes. You're curious as to who I am, why I had that effect on our dear friend, and his on me, how he knew so much about me, and I him, and what we 'discussed' why you bought my son sweets from that shop," _she paused, "_Thank you for that, by the way. And those, of course, are just the conscious reasons; there's a whole other slew of issues in your head, but I have neither the time, or the patience to deal with them."_

They sat in silence for a moment, staring at each other, each trying to figure out who would make the next move.

Eventually, it was made for them, in the form of an inquisitive little boy with black hair arriving home from school.

"_Hello mum!"_

"_Hi, darling, how was school?"_

"_Great – teacher let us use paints – we're making pictures for parent's night!"_

"_Oh, is that coming up so soon? I'd nearly forgotten!"_

"_Mmhmm. Can I go out and play now, mummy? Jimmy Hendricks down the street got a new football – everyone's out there!"_

"_Of course love, but change into play clothes first. And don't forget to put your clothes in the hamper, Miss Charlotte shouldn't have to pick up after you!"_

"'_K. Hi Mister John!"_ Xander darted out of the room, grinning, and taking all the tension from earlier with him.

Both John and Anna found themselves smiling, and returned to their conversation with ease, choosing a lighter topic to discuss instead.

John sighed, and leaned back in his chair, resigned to his lack of understanding for a bit longer.

There was another silence, and then:

"_So what is it, exactly, that you do, then?" _

"_Oh, finally! I was afraid you'd never ask!" _They both smiled, and John took the opportunity to take a sip of his tea. It really was good – obviously expensive, but delicious none-the-less.

"_I'm not really sure my job has a title, per say, but I like to call myself a… mediator. A spin-doctor, I suppose, at least that's what they say in America. Basically, I smooth over problems. I don't fix them, but I make sure that the bad guys look bad and the good guys look good. Covering up government scandals, things like that. It's nice because I only do it when something particularly interesting happens, and I can work my own hours." _She took a bite of a pastry, and continued. "_I like to be home with my son whenever I can – that doesn't always happen – hazard of being a single mother, I suppose, but it's lovely when I can."_

"_So you're a like a consultant, then?"_

"_I suppose you could say that. How else do you think Sherlock and I would have met? He solves problems, and then I make them look good for the press." _Her smile suddenly dropped, and the tension was back in the room as quickly as it had left. They both stared at one another, realizing she had said something too personal. She continued on, staring him directly in the eyes, blue piercing blue.

"_Of course, business wasn't quite as good in Cotswold – but there wasn't really a reason for me to work, either. My parents had rather old fashioned ideas of a lady's place in the world. When they passed on, I decided to come back here, to London."_

"_So you've lived here before," _It wasn't a question.

"_Yes. A very, very long time ago. I was… young." _John raised his eyebrows at this – the young lady in front of him couldn't have been more than thirty, at the oldest – she looked to be more around twenty-eight.

"_Anything else you'd like to ask? I seem to be in a very open mood this morning- but it probably won't last, so if you have more, you should spit it out now." _She smirked a bit at the end, but then her gaze turned darker, and she turned her head to look out the window.

"_Loads more, actually,"_

"_None that you'll ask today, though,"_

"_No, probably not," _There was a silence. Anna took a deep breath, and turned to John to speak.

"_Look, John, I realize you want to know everything, and I appreciate it," _At his look of disbelief, "_No, I really do. You want to protect your friend. That's admirable, it really is. I want to trust you. I want to tell you everything – Sherlock make's few friends, and the ones he does are always for good reasons. But it's not my choice alone. We have a history, one that's shared between two people. He can tell you whatever he'd like about me, but I won't do that to him."_

"_I don't want to know everything – I just, I just want to know _who you are,_"_

"_I am his past, John. As for the future – even I myself am not sure."_

John stood without another word, and left the room, then the house, wanting to get away from everything. He was used to not understanding little things occasionally – he spent his time with Sherlock Holmes, for God's sake, but he couldn't understand why these two people insisted on hurting themselves so badly. And there was nothing he could do about it.

* * *

**Love? Hate? Going where you want it to? I'm seriously open to ideas - I don't plan out my stories very far ahead, so things are ever-changing. Just press that little blue button... you know you want to!**

**And yes, when I said 'football,' I literally meant it. AKA 'soccer ball' if you don't speak British. ;)**

_**6/20/12: I decided to combine chapters 1 and 2. I didn't like how it was going, so I changed it early!**_

_**REVIEW PLEASE!**_

**-Reinette**


	3. Interviews

**Okay, so it's not as 'angry Sherlock' as I was going for, and it's a bit late – I'm sorry – but it's here, and I quite like it! The next one will up the rating – I just haven't decided how much yet. Also, I thank my loyal readers who have not bailed on me even though I had to go back to do some rewrites. Please let me know what you think – especially whether or not you want the rating to go past 'T!'**

**Thanks again to **_Howlynn_ **for putting up with my ramblings. And for watching Doctor Who.**

* * *

It was a case that brought them together again.

It wasn't a case that Sherlock wanted to take, or one with a creepy killer and a poisonous apple.

This was a case with high media coverage that Sherlock agreed to take because Mycroft forced him to. This should have been easy.

The initial meeting with their client took place in a very posh, very extravagant hotel, in the penthouse suite. Sherlock sat, almost comically out of place, on a dark leather couch, next to John, who was just hoping to make it through the meeting without Sherlock insulting someone or the entire building blowing up. It had been one hell of a week.

Mycroft, a government agent in a power suit, and the client had entered moments ago, but the room was still silent, filled with some sort of anticipation that John couldn't quite understand. The tension was high.

Said tension only increased was added to in the form of a blonde woman in heels waltzing in, her fingers flying over a cell phone in a vivid pink case, matching perfectly the glove covering her left hand, and the killer stilettoes that John had only seen before in films. Looking up, Anna said smartly:

"_Sorry I'm late boys; Xander's causing a bit of a fuss at the school, and I had to send Cindy to take care of it. The boy does love to get into trouble – I think he gets it from his father." _The words were punctuated with a wink, and she moved further into the room. Mycroft, who had risen when she entered, sat again and continued the conversation with ease. Not for the first time, John wished Sherlock had inherited some of the same political skills.

"_Speaking of family matters, my dear, there's an event next week I'd like for you and young Alexander to attend- Her Majesty is celebrating a birthday, and I think it would be a good way for you to establish your presence again."_

"_Of course," _Anna was looking down at her phone again as she, almost absently, perched on the arm of the couch Sherlock was occupying, dangerously close to seeming comfortable there. "_Just have someone send the details to Cindy – my secretary – and we'd be glad to go."_

"_I'm assuming I'm not invited?"_

"_No," _Anna and Mycroft spoke in unison to answer the younger Mr. Holmes' query.

"_In that case, we can cease this discussion. Why _exactly_ have you assembled us here, brother?"_

The window was then opened for the client, a Mr. Bryan Sheat, to launch into a story of heartbreak and betrayal, that was, to John's ears, quite dull.

He was quickly cut off with Sherlock demanding to know when he could see the body, and if the crime scene was intact.

By the end of the meeting, Sherlock had the details needed to solve the case, and Anna was texting again, barely taking the time to go through the necessary measures to ensure her job was done.

"_Right, Mycroft, I need the access codes to the files and information so I can make sure facts match up. You – Mr. Sheat, you'll need to be interviewed – my assistant will call you to set it up; make sure to stick to the script she gives you. Sherlock, we'll need to get our stories straight, and I need to know exactly what happened so I can keep the lies as truthful as possible," _her phone buzzed incessantly. "_Hang on a second," _answering it, and heading towards the elevator, "_Yes? They WHAT? Are they complete idiots?" _

She spun round, and winked again, at Sherlock this time. John was astounded she could walk backwards at all. Into her phone, "_No, they can't reschedule the interview. No one _refuses_ an interview with me," _to Sherlock, she pointed at herself and mouthed, "_Dinner, my place, 7:30," _speaking again, "_I don't care about excuses. Tell them it's their loss, and schedule one with the Gazette instead, that'll teach them not to shove me aside,"_

"_And you're just assuming I know where 'your place' is?" _Sherlock was speaking as if her attention wasn't divided, demanding her focus in entirety. Anna angled the phone away from her mouth, still keeping it at her ear as to hear her secretary's comments.

"_You're a smart man, Sherlock, figure it out. Watson did," _with that, she stepped into the elevator, pressing the 'door close' button instead of allowing anyone else to board with her.

Inside the suite, Sherlock could be heard demanding forcefully, "_You did WHAT?"_

Now, John hoped he'd make it through the cab ride home.

* * *

**So? Like it, love it, hate it, neutral? I don't care what it is or how short – I want feedback!**

**Next time: dinner with Anna… and Xander, of course! ;) **

**Don't forget to let me know 'bout the rating – I'm working on getting a poll set up, but until then, review!**

**-Reinette**


	4. Remembrance

**Alright. This is it. You all are finally going to figure out who she is, to a point. Have you guessed yet? **

**I did end up creating the poll – and then decided I didn't care, and it didn't really apply to this chapter because it was going to be 'M lite' just because they needed to – well, spoilers, - and I was too embarrassed to write a full out 'M.' Do vote anyway, though, because I still have many more chapters to write! **

**Warning: depending on how deep of a character you think Sherlock is, this may seem a bit OOC. I do not care. This is my story. Once again, please keep in mind that this is my first time writing this sort of 'material.' It is also nearing 3 in the morning where I am. ;)**

* * *

Unlike Watson, Sherlock took a cab to Number 37 Chesham Place. It was too cold to walk now, and besides, he was less likely to be shot for trespassing if he arrived in a vehicle. Also unlike Watson, Mr. Holmes was greeted not by a maid in a grey uniform, but with a call to enter.

"_We're in the kitchen!" _Sherlock followed the sound of the voice and the smell of pasta to a room to his right, going through a sitting room and a formal dining room, set for six in a way that looked almost permanent, into a posh kitchen decorated with stainless steel and earthy tones, the slanted ceiling and single window elongating the area. A breakfast table stood near the entry way, and at it sat a boy with dark curls, focusing on the school assignments set before him. His mother stood at the stove, in the same clothes from the morning, stirring some sort of pasta that although Sherlock couldn't identify, smelled wonderful. She looked a dream standing there, and it took all of his willpower not to move over and take her against the wall in the way he – well, he thought, there was no need to worry himself with things that once were.

"_No servants tonight?"_

"_There you are – and no. The cook has Wednesday's off, Xander's nurse went home sick, and I gave Charlotte the night off. We'll have to see how my cooking holds up - it has been a while. I trust you found the place alright?"_

"_Yes," _his response was curt, but she didn't seem to mind.

"_Lovely. Xander, are you about finished with your homework? I need to set the table,"_

"_Just about, mum, 'm just having a bit of trouble with this…."_

"_Nonsense. Your Grandfather had you reading well past that level at a much more tender age, what on earth are you struggling with?"_

"_I just can't remember if an 'e' on the end of a word is silent or not,"_

"_Usually. Hasn't he developed a memory palace yet?" _Anna gave Sherlock an exasperated look, and dished two portions of vegetables onto plates.

"_How does 'usually' help me? This is an unusual problem – that's why I can't figure it out. I think there must be a mistake in the printing."_

"_Sherlock. _I _don't even have a memory palace. It's a bit difficult to teach something you haven't yet mastered. Or begun to attempt."_

"_I'll have to teach him, then. You only set out two plates,"_

"_Yes. Xander's going to bed when he finishes this assignment – he has to get up early in the morning. Isn't that right, love?"_

"_Yeah, s'pose." _

"_Open the wine, will you, 'Lock?" _They both froze at the use of the endearment that had slipped so naturally off her tongue, though Alexander remained unaware of anything changing.

"_Of course," _Sherlock was the first to recover.

"_Alright, 'm just gonna ask Miss Anderson tomorrow morning. I need to sleep." _And with that, the odd couple were left alone in the overly large room meant for cooking.

"_Is he always like that," ´_Sherlock's question was soft; he was still staring at the seat his son had only just occupied. Sighing rather loudly, Anna answered in turn, placing the plates and glasses on the table in a swift movement.

"_No, only when he's not around guests. I think he got his social competence from me – and his otherwise lack of interest in other people's daily lives from you. He does well though – I'm very proud of him. He's a very clever boy,"_

"_Right. You should be,"_

"_Yes," _The silence in the room was deafening, lessened only by the muffled noises Xander was making as he prepared for bed. Eventually, Anna moved to sit down, and Sherlock followed suit. The meal was punctuated by frequent bouts of discussion about the case, and what the detective had found.

By the end, they had gone through all the necessary pieces of the puzzle, but the wine had loosened their lips and relaxed their bodies, and neither felt any inclination to end the evening so soon. Instead, they moved into the sitting room, Anna holding onto her glass, while he set his on the table at the edge of the sofa. Anna curled her legs under her, and leaned back against the couch she and Sherlock were seated on.

"_Your hand?"_

"_Better, thanks. It's still – well, we shouldn't…"_

"_Why not?" _She didn't answer.

"_What happened to us, 'Lea?"_

"_Isn't that supposed to be my question?"_

"_Stereotypically, yes, but when have the two of us ever been close to conforming to the stereotypes and assumptions of our world?_

"_True," _she sighed. "_I don't know, Sherlock. We used to be so good at…"_

"_My natural instinct is to blame – "_

"_No. No, Sherlock, you will not mention him here. Not. Here,"_

The room was quiet, but the tension unnerving. Even with the remarkable intelligence flowing between the two of them, neither was quite sure how exactly Anna's glass crashed to the floor and Sherlock's hands moved so quickly to grab her waist, but then again, neither was complaining.

And then her lips were on his, and it was as if they had crashed back to ten years previous, sneaking kisses on hidden terraces of the Seymour's manor home, trying desperately to keep from getting caught and to satisfy their mutual need simultaneously. This time, though, there was nothing to keep them from doing exactly as they pleased.

Anna became suddenly aware of the heat radiating from her lover's hands pressed to the bare skin of her thighs, under her custom made dress; she no longer cared about the price of it, just that it was keeping her from taking what she wanted.

Wanting to control of the situation, she leaned back a bit, away from Sherlock's lean torso, and pulled the dress over her head, leaving herself clad only in the practical but delicate lingerie she wore. Their kisses became furious, passion spilling out of them, pent up from so many years of pain and separation. He twisted them, pressing her body into the couch below them with practiced ease, and she devoted what little brain power she had left to undoing the many buttons of his midnight blue shirt, hindered slightly by the fabric of her glove, but refusing, as always, to remove it.

He traveled down her jaw, and then her neck with his mouth, breathing in the perfect scentof _her, _remembering and re-learning her body, wanting to let her surround him, consumes him; he wanted his Anna back.

When his shirt was on the floor with her dress and heels, she gasped out a word as he bit down lightly on her clavicle, and moved to kiss the curve of her breast.

"_Bedroom,"_

Complying, he pulled them up, and gripped her arse as she wrapped her legs around his waist, no longer content with adhering to gravity. She could fell him hard against her, and moaned into his mouth. Blindly, he headed in the direction of her room; down the hall, to the right, next to the stairs. They stumbled into the room, still lost in a sensual bliss. Sherlock had every intention of throwing her on the bed and taking her in every way he knew until he remembered why he loved her, why he had fallen for this impossible woman who he knew, deep in his heart, he could never had. He had every intention of taking her, using her, _fucking_ her; and then he saw the portrait hanging above the large bed of gold, a chain dangling from one corner of the elaborate frame, with a small silver band fitting perfectly in place.

A wedding photo. It showed them both, younger, smiling, and full of hope; Annalea, in white; tiny diamonds sparkling in the sunlight, and Sherlock, in a dark coat, with a white rose in his lapel, matching the flower Anna had in her beautiful blonde hair.

"_You still have it," _Anna's breathing had slowed as she watched his reaction carefully, suddenly feeling very conscious of her state of undress and the fact that if he chose to, he could walk out now and she would never have the chance to make things right with him again.

Remarkably, Sherlock's thoughts were much the same.

This time, when he turned to her, his gaze wasn't full of lust, or longing, or _challenge_. This time, his gaze was full of love.

"_You still _have it," he breathed the words out now, his eyes prying into hers, trying to decipher what had made her live with the reminder of the life they had once had.

"_Yes,_" she sighed happily, _"Did you really think I could just let it go?"_

Those were the last words spoken for a very long time.

* * *

**Okay, as I feel deeply vulnerable posting this chapter, please review! Am I doing it right? I've never tried to do this before! **

**-Reinette**


	5. Mornings

**Here it is! I finally got to where I could finish the chapter! I've had the first half done for a week – but the second was harder. I'm trying to decide what I want to do with this – if you have any suggestions, I'd love to hear them! I'm battling between finishing this one and starting a sequel, or continuing this for a few more chapters. Or starting a prequel. Please help!**

**Thanks again to **_Howlynn_ **for all her help, and for listening to me ramble.**

* * *

The morning after was always the hardest.

The first time it happened, there had been the shame and the slight scramble for clothes, but they had managed. She had gathered her things from the floor of his flat and changed in the bathroom, pecking him on the lips once before blushing, and going down to the street to hail a taxi to take her home.

The second time, there hadn't been a morning after, at least not one that affected him. Instead, there was a rush to straighten up, and a stretching of sore limbs, and the beginnings of a kiss that would have led to another round. Self-control, however, was a quality they both possessed even at such a young age, and they returned to the ballroom and continued the evening, sharing smiles across the room as they danced, in their opinions, too far apart.

The best one had been the morning after the night they had been married. After the photo's had been taken, and the congratulations given from their few guests, they had returned home together, to a quaint flat Annalea's parents had given her for her birthday a few weeks before. The night had been wonderful, but Sherlock considered the next morning the best of his life, as this time, he finally had every right to pull her back to the bed and hold her until they both were ready to satisfy their needs again.

This time, though, was different. They woke slowly, almost reluctantly, their subconscious knowing that waking would bring with it a whole new situation, and one neither had dealt with. When they had been together in that way in secret, they went their separate ways. When they were married and together, they loved and lived as they wished. But when they had not spoken in nearly eight years, and there was a little boy upstairs, and her wedding ring hung above them, a reminder that, willingly or not, they were still married; well, that was an entirely different story.

They probably could have handled the situation better, or in a different manner, but neither did. Anna rose first, shamelessly walking – no, swaying, - into her closet, pulling from it a dress and a pair of heels. She grabbed a matching glove, as well, but Sherlock knew she wouldn't change it in front of him. He was quite sure he would never see that particular part of her skin ever again, no matter how much he begged.

She moved almost silently into the wash room, and Sherlock counted the minutes it took her to shower and change, wanting so badly to go and see her, to do something, anything, to show her that the previous night hadn't been a mistake, but knowing that he would let her make the next move. Instead, he studied his surroundings, lying back in the bed covered with gold and cream. The room was distinctly hers, he decided. Simplistic in quantity, but the lush and luxurious coverings subtly screamed the wealth that she had grown up around. Her parents were dead, Sherlock knew, so it was safe to assume that the money for a place like this had come from a rather large inheritance, supplemented by the enormous insurance policies both of the late Seymour's had possessed.

Twenty-six minutes and thirty two seconds later, Anna emerged from the grand ensuite. She didn't look surprised to see her lover still lying there, staring at her.

"_I hate to dash, but I need to get Xander ready for school,"_

"_Liar," _his voice was smooth, as they played the game that had nearly consumed them at a point in their relationship.

"_Yes,"_

"_Go on then, run away. I'll get over it,"_

She rolled her eyes, and moved to sit on her side of the bed, slipping her shoes on.

"_Are we going to handle this today, Anna? Or should we wait another eight years? Maybe by that time we can act like adults," _He knew she would be angry at this. That was part of why he said it.

"_I'm not being an ADULT? I'm not the one who spends his days prancing around murder scenes!"_

"_Oh, of course not, you just make up the lies about them."_

"_I'm caring for a child – my, o-our son!"_

"_I'm not the one who left, Anna." _Sherlock's voice had gone soft, betraying the emotion hidden in the words.

"_But I'm the one who came back."_ She was looking down, now, as though she was ashamed. It was all he could do not to take her in his arms, the way he once had, but they needed to finish this.

"_I'm sorry."_

"_You've said that before."_

"_It's still true."_

"_Good."_

"_Yes." _

This time he moved with assurance towards her, slipping his arms around her waist, relishing the feeling of _her,_ breathing, living, _surviving._ She let her arms move to encircle his neck, and her head fell naturally on his chest, two pieces of a puzzle fitting together once more. He was a head taller than her, even with her heels, and he tipped his own head down so he could see her golden curls flowing over his bare chest. They breathed in silently for a moment, neither wanting to break the golden glow surrounding them. Gently, Sherlock tilted her lips up to capture them with his own.

They stood like that for an eternity, only breaking apart when air became a necessity.

"_I'm sorry too." _Sherlock was silent, a response not coming to his mind. Apologies were few and far between for both of them, but especially for this woman who had spent her entire life trying to escape from a forgiving society.

"_I shouldn't have left. I should have let things work out."_

"_No. It doesn't matter, Anna. We can't change anything that happened, and I wouldn't like for us to try, either."_

"_It's in the past."_

"_Yes."_

"_And the future?"_

"_Unknown to us both, I suppose."_

"_That's funny, Sherlock. There was once a time when there was nothing unknown to the man I married."_

"_Obviously, things have changed. Evidence of that is just outside the door, eating breakfast, I believe."_

"_I suppose so."_

"_Will you tell him?"_

"_What makes you think I haven't already?"_ For the second time that morning, Sherlock was quiet. "_A clever boy like that, he asked about his father as soon as he started primary school. I was quite surprised it wasn't before."_

"_And what did you tell him?"_

"_I told him his father was a great man, a brilliant man, and living in London. I told him that we had been married once, before he was born, and that something came between us and I decided to move back to live with his Grandmother and Grandfather. The answer worked for quite some time – and he didn't ask again. I think he realized I didn't want to talk about it. So he knows his father is alive, and well. Other than that, I wasn't sure what to say." _She was rambling by the end, obviously frightened he would be angry at either telling their son too much, or too little.

"_Well then, we'll have to make things clear, won't we?"_

"_I suppose so – that is, if…"_

"_If we're going to fix this?_

"_Yes."_

"Yes." Their lips met once more in promise, and the hope of what tomorrow would bring.

* * *

**And that's a wrap! Please do tell me what you'd like to see – 300 people read this, and hardly anyone has answered! So review already!**

**-Reinette**


End file.
